The kangaroos are jumping over hill and over dale

The leprechauns are leaping through fields forever pale

The spectrum of the mermaids is growing by the day

And happy ever after is one more day away

The unicorns are dancing to gigues of their own devise

The ancient mariner speaking in rhymes that once surprise

Pegasus parading ’round clouds of soft ice cream

And never ending stories are more than just a dream

http://www.leaves-of-ink.com/2019/09/a-dream.html

https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07485W4Q1

www.brucelevine.com

A couple of years ago my wife and I were standing amongst the throngs of tourists beneath Juliet’s balcony in Verona. While the others were clamoring to get their pictures made touching the breast of Juliet’s statue for luck, I found myself wondering, “If I was to try to write a story, my own Romeo and Juliet, how could I supply the tension Shakespeare supplied to his young lovers vis-a-vis their feuding families?”

Knowing that someone starting out to write should write about what that person knows, and being from the American South, the obvious occurred to me while standing there in Juliet’s courtyard. What better to provide tension between young lovers than southern racial mores? Idea’s immediately flooded through my mind, so when we arrived home I wrote my first story since grade school, an inter-racial lover’s tragedy in the spirit of Shakespeare’s. I have written many stories since, but it remains my longest, and my wife says my best. I was inspired when I wrote it as I have been for few others, almost as though Juliet was pushing me to tell the story she had inspired.

My wife would lie in bed at night reading what I had written during the day. I had mentioned to her years previously that I enjoyed writing, and had been told many years ago that I had some skill, but I could see in her excitement that what I was writing was pretty good, which only encouraged me to continue, and to try to write better.

Since then writing has become a fun hobby for me. I can say that I would not bother if there was no one to read what I write, so I appreciate this site. I can usually turn out a short story for my wife and my Prose friends to read before breakfast, and I enjoy reading the stories they share as well. I cannot say that writing has “helped me“ per se, but I think Prose has helped me in that it gives me insight into what others like to read... what “works well”, and what doesn’t.

It is great that those inspired to write, particularly young writer’s, have sites like Prose today where they can find encouragement and feedback for their feelings and ideals. There is no need for you to wait, like I did, until you are fifty years old to “find your Juliet”. I would have given anything to have had a place like this to bare my soul thirty-five years ago.

So, to those who believe that social media is a bad thing, “perhaps you have just not found the “write” site for you”. Write on! (And read a little, too ;)

Exactly in the place I should be

I'm exactly in the place I should be

with exactly the one I should be

for reasons we know not exactly...

As the birds zip on by 

and the steam engines cry

from ancient memories of old

where all stories are told

we hang out like a string

that slips through everything

and ties the knot sure enough

through shoes that have yet to walk

We're exactly in the space we sought

aside exactly the selves once sought

taking chances we know exactly not...

..Yet we conjure-up equations,

stealing in like home invasions ..

Made to walk on trapeze swings...

...Here we are, all smiles and wings.

...Cherubim and funeral hymns

have moments of gathering us in

from what drops that do cascade

across the floats of our parade 

Lines signal exactly what steps we'll take

on exactly which road we're meant to snake

upon the endless mystery we know not exactly of...

Exactly in the place I should be

I'm exactly in the place I should be

with exactly the one I should be

for reasons we know not exactly...

©

8/15/19

Bunny &

Mavia Villaire

I’m a terrible human being

...

My biggest goal is to defile you

To the point that no matter how hard you scrub your skin, the parts I’ve laid my hands on sting the most

Smoldering fever pitch to make you shiver in your bathtub

To the point that when you go to bed at night, you’ll be rolling around at 3AM aching for my presence

Go ahead, bite your pillow in frustration— I’ll turn you into an insomniac

To the point that when something reminds you of the slightest bit of me, you won’t be able to handle it

You’ll have me on speed dial begging for me to sprint over, crawl if I have to

Don’t make me laugh

Just your hands won’t be enough

Nothing else will be

Will you be able to eat properly? Think properly? Live properly?

I’m a terrible human being

...

But you, you’re worse than me

Because you think what I’m doing isn’t disgusting

Because you keep showing up after pushing me away

Because you left your spare key on my bed

Because you’re a professional liar

Because you want to do the same

Because when I pretend to be asleep, I hear your little whispers

Because when you think I’m not looking, I see your little grin

Because you let me

Because

You want me to do these things to you

And more

...

You left the rules blank on purpose

I’m only playing along in your perverse game

You thought you had the upper hand

But it’s obvious there’s no winner

Since neither of us are going anywhere

...

After all, we’re terrible human beings

Better not stare for long at that mirror. I hear she’s looking for a way out. O, who you wonder. Well, she wandered about in an empty place one day. Not even checking to see if there was anybody home. This person went searching around an abandoned place, for anything valuable I guess. But then what she found caught her eye: a brand new, golden mirror.

She tried to pull it off the wall, but it wouldn’t budge. The most bizarre thing happened right there, the glass whirled about and two hands fell right on the other side of the mirror. The woman screamed- just as the thing pulled her right into the mirror. She now kicked from the other side of the glass— over & over again. It was too late, the glass had gelatin in a snap and soon solidified.

#Trapped

It hurts

It hurts so bad

My legs are trembling

My heart is pounding

I can’t stop

I can’t stop now

I can’t stop later

I can’t stop tomorrow

I have to keep going

I have to keep running

I have too

Otherwise it will hurt more And

I can’t stand the pain any longer.

I have to run;

I have to keep running

I can’t stop

I can’t stop to eat

I can’t stop for the washroom

I can’t make excuses

What am I running from?

Pain

How much longer will I continue to stand in front of the mirror

With such deeply rooted vanity pulling my face to the silver glass

Insecurities manifesting the more I stare

Reassurance,

I need so much reassurance

At least I don’t look like...

Is comparing yourself to someone else the only way you’ll feel better?

Pathetic

Why do you need to bring someone else down? To use them as a stepping stool? Can’t you show some compassion?

To anyone other than me? Impossible. I love myself the most. More than anyone ever can!

But didn’t you hear? Those who love themselves too much are just trying to make up for the love they aren’t receiving from anybody else

Didn’t you hear? The vain are the most insecure.

shrunken in a corner, i quiver

i wait to hear your call

but how can anyone notice me

when i've shriveled to be so small

do they hear the crying

do they feel my hurt

i realize i'm not one to hold

i'm someone to desert

Ballpoint tears, my fountain pens

Quill dipped ’neath Horizon’s rim

Clouds of thought sail sunlight, dim

Crimson, east to west, I swim

Full moon flush with Sun’s embrace

Evening, scattered stars enlace

Heaven writ in double space

Endless waters fall from grace

Papyrus creased; pressed flowers age

Bound within worn leather’s cage

Silence sheered, each gilded page

Echoes; wisdom’s ancient sage

Worries drowned in well of ink

Weightless; sorrow’s anvil sinks

Heart of grey now blush with pink

To fall on grace with everything

Sunlight’s first kiss

Dawn awakens daydreams

Silk threaded stitch

Mends the edge of Eve’s seam

Sun spills resplendence

Ten thousand soft lips

Champagne effervescence

Gold chalice we sip

Soirée of ages

Moon flush with Sun’s kiss

Dwelt in mansions, each phase

Milk-white streams of Sun’s bliss

Sunlight we miss

Every day, though, anew

Granting starlight’s first wish

Kissing morning’s fresh dew